John's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
by Minch
Summary: Alexander of the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day does not have anything on my day. His fridge was never set on fire.


**Title:** John and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

**Author:** Minch

**Spoilers:** All of Series One and "A Scandal in Belgravia."

**Rating:** K+ for mild language.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Sherlock_. It belongs to BBC. I am just a guy writing for enjoyment, not profit.

**Author's note:** I am not writing this fic with Johnlock in mind. Guy Ritchie's films do not compare to Steven Moffat's, but I agree when the fortune teller says that they are 'two brothers, not in blood but in bond.' Furthermore, this is not intended to be a commentary on fridges that really do catch fire in one way or another!

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Harry's favourite book when we were kids was _Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day_. Just reading about his day made her life seem a little more bearable. It did not make my life as her brother any more bearable.

Alexander does not have anything on my day today. His fridge was not ever set on fire.

The day went bad from the beginning. The alarm clock did not go off. The toast burned. There was not any butter left to mask the taste. The cab was stuck in traffic for almost half an hour on the way to the surgery. The lock on my office door would not open for five minutes of twisting the key and muttering curses. The window had been left open all night. There was a large rain-spot on the carpet. A deluge of patients came in almost right away. Sarah wound up taking some of the cases for me when I could not see them fast enough. All of the lunch I had time for was a cup of coffee. I spilled the coffee on my pants. An orderly spilled coffee on my shirt. A baby puked on me. I cracked my head on an open drawer at least twice. Sherlock started a constant barrage of texts around six in the evening. They were all variations of

_Come to the flat at once._

_ SH_

I do not dare to turn my phone completely off for fear that I will not pick up the one time he actually needs me, but I almost did turn it off. After the fifth text during my last appointment, I had had it. As soon as the patient was out the door, I replied

_Do NOT text again unless the flat is on fire or if you're bleeding_.

_JW_

That was what Mum would always say when Harry and I were pestering her. The phone buzzed instantly with a reply.

_Turn the telly to channel four._

_SH_

'Now what does that mean?' I asked no one in particular.

As if on cue, the door of the exam room opened. 'John,' Sarah started anxiously. Even though we were no longer dating, she still called me by my given name. 'You better come.' She led me out to the waiting room and pointed at the telly mounted on the wall. It was channel four with a breaking story about a fire on Baker Street.

'I can't leave him alone for a day without him burning the flat to the ground!' I muttered as I rushed back to my office.

My luck continued downhill from there. There was a bad rainstorm out. I had no umbrella. Not one or two, but three cabs ignored me. Every single one of them splattered me with mud. One finally stopped and, when I told the cabbie the address, she snorted in amusement. 'Goin' to see if the great Sherlock 'Olmes burned down 'is flat?' I did not dignify that with an answer, so she shrugged and started off. I noticed then that an update on the Baker Street fire was airing on her radio.

'–_has been contained. The fire marshal of Euston Fire Station has determined that the blaze was started by faulty wiring in a kitchen appliance and is not related to the gas leak explosion from several months_–'

The cab driver turned the radio to another station. I fired off a text to my flatmate.

_What did you do?_

_JW_

_Nothing. Faulty wiring._

_SH_

_That's the official story. WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU DO?!_

_JW_

_ Experiment in the fridge. I had everything under control when one of the neighbours rang up the fire brigade._

_ SH_

When I got home, the fire truck was leaving. A few reporters were still hanging around talking to neighbours. 'Well, not much to see,' the cabbie commented as I paid her. 'Mad, you lot, followin' that git around like bleedin' puppies.' She roared off before I could retort in my friend's defence. I was splattered with mud yet again.

I managed to sneak inside without being hounded by the reporters. The first good thing that happened all day! As I closed the door, I could smell smoke and burnt plastic. Mrs Hudson was just inside, spraying the place down with air freshener. 'Oh, John, thanks goodness you're here,' she said as she continued her attempt to rid the air of the stench.

'What happened? All I saw on the news was a fire and that it was contained.'

'Him and his experiments. I may go mad with everything that's happened.' Her voice rose in pitch. 'Playing his violin at ungodly hours, people breaking in every few months, him coming home over your shoulder drugged once. And now this; it's just too much!' She went down the hall to her flat in a hurry. I went up the stairs, two at a time. The burnt smell grew stronger as I went up. The doors of 221B, both to the kitchen and the main room, were open.

Sherlock was sweeping up broken glass in the kitchen. I just stared. I have never seen him clean up anything, anywhere. He noticed me standing in the doorway after a few moments. 'Oh, good, you're here.'

'You're sweeping.'

'That is an exceedingly trivial observation, John, even for you. I'm sweeping because I'm the only one of the two of us who knows how to clean up sulphuric acid. No, no, it's all fine,' he interrupted my splutters of incredulity. 'It was only a ten molar solution, already cleared away. But the fire marshal insisted on taking my experiment with him. "For safety," he said.'

'Would you mind telling me how the fridge is involved in a fire that made news on channel four and the radio?' I looked to the left of the door. Said fridge was still in one piece, although the casing was sooty and the stench seemed to originate from it.

'I told you, an experiment,' he said nonchalantly. 'It went a little awry, but nothing to worry about.'

'Nothing to worry about,' I repeated cynically, walking into the flat. 'Of course, why worry about it? You obviously had everything under control.'

'Yes, I did,' he said, pleased with himself. I sighed as I dropped into my chair by the fireplace. I said it once and I will say it again: it is incredible how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things. Copernicus' Heliocentric Theory is just the beginning. Sarcasm and its uses have also been deleted from his hard drive.

'I know you, Sherlock. You're a desperate show-off. Do tell me how you were able to set a refrigeration unit on fire.'

'Quite a simple task, though I wasn't planning on combusting it. I unplugged it, of course, and put the sulphuric–'

'Hang on. You unplugged the refrigerator?'

'Yes; I did say that just now.'

'And what food was left in it is spoiled, isn't it?'

'There wasn't much in it.'

'But it is spoiled.'

He did not say anything for a moment, evidently wanting to continue with the account of his incendiary investigation. 'Yes,' he acquiesced. 'Anyway, when I opened the door there was indeed a fire in the cabin of the fridge. I shut the door to let the blaze burn itself out, but some of the smoke escaped out of the open window. It was a most interesting shade of green. Someone saw it and called the fire brigade.'

'And just how did you convince them that it was the wiring of the fridge that caused the fire?'

'Lestrade got wind of it and called the fire marshal to ask what happened. He apparently advised him to just accept my word for what the cause was. But he still took my experiment.' Sherlock swept the last of the glass into an old paper and tossed it into the bin. He then got a paper towel and wet it in the sink. He carefully crawled around, feeling for slivers of glass.

'So that's it?'

'What's it?' Sherlock asked from the floor.

'We don't have a working fridge because you set fire to it.'

'I expect that the manufacturers will call soon to apologise for the faultiness of their merchandise. They might even send a completely new one.'

'They'll probably order a recall,' I commented. 'Lose a lot of money.' He did not answer, which is not new for him. He kept picking up glass shards, which is new for him. 'You don't care about them losing money, probably having to lay people off to cover for the expense?'

'No.'

That was it. I could not stand him. I stormed out the door, half-expecting him to ask where I was going. But no, Sherlock was captivated by the floor. Let him be mesmerised by linoleum. See if he even notices I am gone.

I remembered too late to go out the back door. A reporter marched up, heedless of the rain, and exclaimed. 'You're John Watson, Sherlock Holmes' flatmate. What's your impression of his antics?'

'No comment, thank you,' I declined.

'Sir, I am from–'

'Look, ma'am, I don't care what paper you are from, I have no comment!' I walked around her and beat it for the tube. I did not look to see which line I got on, just somewhere away from Sherlock and his infuriating lack of sympathy.

Damn him. Damn him and his cold, unfeeling heart. No, he said it himself, he does not have one. He is right, as always. Social niceties hold no sway over him whatsoever. He treats the crimes he investigates like games, like there are not human lives at stake. He acts like he is not human himself. I am not even sure if he is.

The tube stopped suddenly at the station. The bloke standing next to me spilled his coffee on my head. He rushed out the door with nary an apology. '_Departing Great Portland Street. Next stop, Euston Square,_' the PA announced. My stomach grumbled loudly, telling all the world that I had not eaten anything but a slice of burned toast all day. I refused to meet any of the looks the other passengers gave me. I would get a bite to eat somewhere. I remembered there being a sandwich café a block or two to the north of the tube station at Euston when I got off. No such luck. It was only when I had walked the two blocks to where I thought the café was that I remembered it was on Baker Street. Why the hell I ever thought it was on North Gower Street, I do not know. Besides, I had no money after paying for my ticket. A one-way ticket. 'Nothing for it,' I muttered to myself as I turned right onto Drummond Street. 'A walk would do me good.'

It was still raining, of course. I still had no umbrella. My shoulder throbbed like it does in bad weather. I got splattered with mud for the fifth time that day. Not by a cab, a double decker bus this time. The hail started when I finally got to Baker Street. There was the sandwich café, right next door and not on the other side of Regent's Park. The reporters were gone, thank God. I also had my keys. There was smoke lingering on the air inside, but at least it was dry. I clomped up the stairs, past 221B and up to my bedroom for a shower and a change of clothes. Never had hot water felt so good.

My good fortune did not last. There was an almighty crash of thunder and the power went out. I sighed. Even Alexander had a better day than this. I eventually found my clothes, my stomach constantly reminding me of its being neglected. But there wasn't a scrap of food left in the flat, not after Sherlock torched the fridge! I kicked the bed in frustration, getting a stubbed toe for my pains. Now I would have to go shopping because Sherlock never would.

But then, I smelled something new. It was not the pungent odour that had pervaded the air an hour or so before. It was more like…freshly baked bread.

Whatever Sherlock was up to now, it certainly smelled nicer than his experiment. I went down the stairs and into the main flat. Sherlock sat in his chair, gazing at the roaring fire on the hearth. There was no sign of another experiment. 'John, are you going to stand there gawping all night?' Sherlock asked. There was still a tart tone in his deep voice, but it seemed a little less biting than usual.

'What is that smell? Another experiment?' I asked.

'If you would observe,' he gestured to the table by the front windows without looking away from the hearth. On the table sat two wrapped sandwiches from the café next door. My stomach complained again, louder than the first two times. 'You have not had anything to eat since breakfast,' Sherlock observed. He stood and picked up one of the sandwiches. Almost cautiously, I picked up the other.

As I unwrapped it, I asked, 'What? Did Mrs Hudson get these?'

'No, she hasn't left her flat this evening.'

'So you got them?'

'Yes.' I was so shocked I almost did not see what was on the sandwich. Turkey, provolone cheese, he even remembered that I like relish. I wasted no more time. The sandwich was gone in less than two minutes flat. Sherlock spent a little more time on his, but not by much.

For a few tense minutes, we did not say anything to each other. 'Bad storm,' I remarked.

'Should last most of the night,' Sherlock replied.

'If the power stays off that long, it won't really matter that you unplugged the fridge. It'll all go bad anyway.' I was still annoyed with him about that.

'Precisely why I started the experiment.' When I looked at him in surprise, he clarified, 'The weather isn't hard to predict, John.'

'But the sandwiches?'

He looked in confusion. 'I thought you would appreciate the gesture–'

'No, I do, I do. It's just…I didn't expect it.' He accepted that answer and went back to contemplating the fire.

I was wrong before. Though he would deny it, he had a heart. More than that, he counted me as a friend. And I counted myself fortunate to have the friendship of Sherlock Holmes.

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As I said on my profile, real life recently hit me in the face and knocked me clean out of the land of free time! This is likely to be the last story/update you will see from me for a very long time.

Reviews are quite welcome! And until next time, fare thee well. May your imagination never cease to exist, and may your writing continue to give purpose to your life.


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